


A Dull Object

by jusToxy_more



Category: Cursed (2020), Cursed (Netflix), Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lancelot and Gawain are Dads, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusToxy_more/pseuds/jusToxy_more
Summary: “Do you have the will, my son?” Father Carden asked. “Yes, Father,” he replied, confident.A lie. Sweet, like a mother’s caress, but still a lie. He now understood the sad truth.He didn’t believe it. He never believed it.-Translation of “Un objet sans éclat” written by jusToxy_more, translated by ABlackRaven (https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABlackRaven/pseuds/ABlackRaven) -
Relationships: (Eventual), Gawain & Squirrel, Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Lancelot and Percival, Lancelot/Gawain, The Weeping Monk & Squirrel, The Weeping Monk/Gawain
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	1. My Name Was Lancelot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Un objet sans éclat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513510) by [jusToxy_more](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusToxy_more/pseuds/jusToxy_more). 



_ “We will speak of this one last time,” began Father Carden. _

_ He readjusted his position and took a long breath, preparing to hear once more what had been hammered into him from childhood.  _

_ “You were demon-born,” his deep, sweet voice echoed in him, as it does in everyone. Father Carden’s words entered his mind and never left--the words cling to his thoughts like the roots of weeds–and he ended up believing. This is how it worked; this is how Carden convinced the weak to follow him.  _

_ “An abomination in the eyes of God.” But this time, something was different. He was believing the words less and less. The eight-year old orphan, torn from his family and home, had believed that wholly. But at that moment an idea was taking form in his thoughts: the child that he was had not been abominable.  _

_ No, abominable was what he became when he blindly killed innocents at the orders of the Paladins. Those innocent who were, like him, demons in the judgement of a god they did not even know the name of.  _

_ “But I spared you from the fire, because you could sense your own kind,” Carden continued.  _

_ He always strove to believe that this talent was given to him by Him, and that it was his destiny to serve His will with blood. Now He seemed further away than ever: totally out of reach. “Faith is believing what you cannot see,” he was told once, and once he had believed. Did he still have that in him?  _

_ “I gave you scripture. I gave you discipline.I forged you into one of our sharpest blades.”  _

_ A weapon; that is what he is. A tool to be used at the pleasure of a master, an object devoid of consciousness or beauty. He told himself that this should be enough for him, that he was lucky–privileged–to be able to serve Him, that he should have burned with his family seventeen years ago.  _

_ “I turned you against your maker,”–What maker?–”And I laid the first brick on the path to your Salvation.”  _

_ He no longer sees Salvation. He doesn’t feel it in any way. It was a light that had been made to shimmer to make it malleable, and now it is gone dull.  _

_ “But I cannot walk the road for you, my son; I cannot save you from the flames.”  _

_ This was not what he had been told when, at the age of fifteen, he was brutally whipped and told that this was how he would be saved. “Pain is salvation!” they would shout at him, and he believed it for years. Not anymore. When he looks at his reflection, he sees nothing more than a bruised, deformed, disfigured body, sheltering a lost soul. _

_ “You must have the will to do what is necessary.”  _

_ But perhaps these thoughts were just the result of his conversation with the Green Knight. Maybe God put him in his way to test him. And yet even as he contemplated this, his faith was turning into crumbling ground beneath his feet.  _

_ “Do you have the will, my son?” Father Carden asked. “Yes, Father,” he replied, confident. _

_ A lie. Sweet, like a mother’s caress, but still a lie. He now understood the sad truth.  _

_ He didn’t believe it. He never believed it.  _

____________________________________

As he advanced towards Brother Salt's tent, the Monk prepared to do what was necessary. Not necessary according to Father Carden, but instead according to his own inner voice. For what feels like the first time in his life he is making his own choice, not following orders. He is following the morals in his heart instead of the echoing voices of scripture and lies in his head. 

Morality. A word that felt meaningless to him, but that he nevertheless tried to understand. 

The Monk didn’t dwell on the boy’s bewildered eyes as he slit Brother Salt’s throat, just loosened his bonds as quickly as possible. He grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along, aware that he is being brutal, but knowing that they are running out of time. The boy said nothing. 

He must have wondered if the Monk freed him to just kill him or if he really was saved. The absence of question relieves the Monk; he wouldn’t have been able to answer, because he was not really sure what he was doing yet. 

What he knew, however, was that he could not let the boy be tortured and killed. 

From what he observed when he was holding him prisoner, this boy was stubborn, annoying and very talkative. But he was also loyal and brave; he didn't hesitate to infiltrate the Paladins' camp to save the Green Knight, even though it was stupid and suicidal. 

When he looks at him, the Monk does not see an abomination. He sees a child who deserved to live, nothing more. And if the Monk's case was hopeless, he was nevertheless determined not to leave the boy in Carden's hands, even if that means leaving behind everything he has always known.

But just as they approach his mount, they come face to face with Abbot Wicklow and his Trinity Guards. 

"I wouldn't do that." 

____________________________________

_ Upon entering the tent he was struck by the condition of the Green Knight. One of his eyes was so swollen it wouldn’t open anymore. His face was covered in wounds and blood, and the Monk could see numerous cuts and burn through his half-open shirt.  _

_ He shouldn't be surprised, it's not the first time he's seen Brother Sel's work, but he was impressed that the Knight has given the executioner so much trouble. The Monk couldn’t remember any other prisoner holding on for so long.  _

_ But this one was used to suffering. He knew, better than many, that physical suffering is nothing compared to that of the mind. The Green Knight was breathing raggedly, and his body lifted on its own in painful jolts. It was as if he had withheld any sign of pain during the torture session only to release everything when his tormentors left. Surely he hadn't expected the Weeping Monk to visit him. _

_ He had always thought of the Green Knight with respect. He was not like the other Faës, he was stronger, faster, and more agile. Defeating him in the woods wasn't easy, and The Monk almost failed. His victory came at the cost of revealing his true nature. _

_ When the Knight mentioned his people, when his body connected with the life on that forest floor, a door that had been double-locked for more than fifteen years opened violently. A flood of memories struck him in that moment, swirling around him, submerging him, almost drowning him.  _

_ How could he have forgotten? His people. His family. His identity.  _

_ And as if that was not enough, the Knight showed him unexpected compassion. The Knight declared that he wanted to help the Monk; to welcome him among the Faës. _

_ He did not understand. The Knight should have hated him. He should have wanted to kill him by any means possible. Instead he simply looked at him, a mix of sadness and hope in his eyes. The Knight seemed to have realized that he wouldn’t make it out of that tent alive, and yet he offered him his friendship. Just like that, without asking for anything in return.  _

_ At that moment, the Monk would like to know the Knight’s real name. _

_ And even if he rejected it initially, deep inside he knows that this door that the Knight has opened cannot be closed. He came out of the tent thoughtful, with more questions than when he entered. _

_____________________________________

Different paths to escape passed through the Monk’s head as the boy raised his arm to touch his hand. His hand was still closed around the collar of the boy’s vest. And at some point, he realized, his goal shifted. He must save the boy, no matter what the cost. 

He owed the Green Knight that much. 

"Does he remind you of anyone, that orphan Faë?" Wicklow shouts, obviously trying to distract and weaken him by extorting his feelings. 

But the Monk knows that on some level, Wicklow wasn’t wrong. Somewhere, this child represented the innocent, brazen boy he once was, before the Paladins brainwashed him. 

“You don’t need him,” the Monk replied in a last attempt to get out of the camp without a fight. He did not believe that possible anymore; the Abbbot would not have brought the Trinity Guards for nothing. 

“Why? Can’t he smell his own, like an animal? Or is that just your kind?” 

The urge to destroy the rat of a man before him burned in the Monk’s fist. This ignorance, disdain, and bigotry of the Faë people did not bother him before. He had come to forget what he was after Carden's manipulations, so he didn't understand the horror of what the Paladins said. 

He didn’t answer and, realizing that there was no way out, ordered the boy to go and hide.

And, only moments later, he found himself on his knees, exhausted, his body strewn with wounds. It feels like his time has come. “At least I die having done something right,” he thought grimly. One of the guards grabbed his head and lowered his thick hood. The cool evening air relieved the pain for a moment.

As the Monk waited for the last blow the pressure on his head abruptly subsided, and he turned to see the boy grab a sword lying on the ground and brazenly challenge the remaining guards. A mix of frustration and affection washed over him. The fact that the boy risked his life to save him, when he could have saved his own skin, stirs something in him that he cannot yet identify. 

So, gathering the last of the strength in his body, he grabbed his sword and fought. Every muscle hurt; he was not sure how he managed to even move. Despair, probably. Or maybe it was something else: the strength of having something true to fight for. 

The Trinity guard fell. 

An hour later the Monk and the boy, Squirrel, slowly rode down a deserted road, trying to get as far away from the Paladins’ camp. He held Squirrel by the waist to prevent him from falling off the horse, and when Squirrel asked him his name, he was at a loss for a moment. He had not thought of it in years, and he was afraid of not being able to recall it at all. 

But, just as he began to lose hope, it came back to him like an old friend. 

“Lancelot,” he said softly, the wound feeling so familiar yet so foreign on his tongue, “A long time ago, my name was Lancelot.” 


	2. Hope

Gawain awoke in an empty tent, lying on the ground and staring up blankly at gray canvass. 

Lacking the energy to move, he was just able to barely look out the entrance of the tent. Outside, red and orange lights dance: fire. A harsh smell of smoke invaded his nose. He would have coughed if he were not afraid to move. 

After several minutes of panicked confusion, it finally comes back to him; he is in the Paladins’ camp. He was tortured by the monk without eyes, until he was sure he would lose his mind. The Weeping Monk came to see him and ask why he did not reveal his secret to the other monks. Gawain tried to convince him to join them, and there was doubt in the Ashman’s gaze, but not enough. A few hours after that Squirrel, that brave little Faë, infiltrated the camp to save him. And because of Gawain, he was captured. Something horrible twisted in his heart with a pang of grief. Was it foolish to hope Squirrel was still alive? After that, he remembers a few moments of consciousness, then nothing: total darkness.

He must have died. 

But surely that was not what death looked like, right? The smell of burning and smoke filling the lungs, the cries of pain and agony invading the ear, stiff and painful limbs dragging the soul down–surely death was not so? No. He must have lived. 

And that meant he needed to get up quickly, because there was a fire outside, and it would be unfortunate to die after miraculously surviving. If Squirrel is out there somewhere in Britannia, and Gawain had to believe that was possible, he had to find him. 

Progressively, he managed to move a finger, then two, then his whole hand. He sat up with difficulty, noticing with surprise the ground around his body. It was covered with life: shimmering green grass dotted with some flowers. Startled, he felt his body for the cuts, burns, and other wounds the monk inflicted on him, and found nothing, only a few small bruises. 

Only one person had the power to heal a body like that, only one person wielded that power: Nimue. She was in that camp at one point, but she was no longer there. A bad feeling gripped his chest, but he could not afford to linger in the camp any longer. He stood up, grimacing. 

Outside of the tent a scene of desolation unfolded before him. Paladins screamed and fled all around him, surrounded by flames. He did not know who was the cause of the fire, but he could not help but find a grim satisfaction in seeing them consumed by it. Gawain never liked the sight of anyone in pain, but after seeing the Paladins cause so much suffering–after seeing them murder innocent children–he felt this was what they deserved at that point. 

Amazingly, apart from his fatigue, he felt surprisingly well. Gawain successfully calmed a panic-stricken horse and immediately set off at gallop to leave the camp behind, heading due North. 

_____________________________________

Gawain rode two days before falling on the first village. In the meantime, he fed on fruit he could find on the road–nothing substantial. The villagers were greeted by the sight of a tottering, barefoot, and glassy-eyed man arriving on a barely harnessed horse. It does without saying trust wasn’t immediately given. 

He gave them a lie; he told them that he was attacked by bandits on the road and that he was starving. The villagers offered him help in return: new clothes, food, a place to stay for a few days. Gawain accepted the help gratefully, and worked three days with a farmer to earn money to buy weapons and travel necessities. 

At the tavern, he heard people whispering about the latest news from the war; Carden was dead, killed by the Wolfblood Witch, who disappeared. This tells him that at least Nimue was able to escape the Paladin camp alive–the question now was where she went. 

Back on the road, Gawain was happy none of the villagers guessed that he was Faë; this would have caused problems he did not need. His choice of destination was Gramaire. Although he doubted his people were still there, it was his only lead.

On the third day, while cooking a wild boar he shot an hour earlier in the forest, he heard strange noises in the distance. Listening carefully, he realized that these were sounds of combat. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was wise to go take a look, then grabbed his bow and arrows and rushed towards the source of the sounds. 

Approaching a clearing, he hid behind a tree to observe the scene. It was in amazement that he watches the Weeping Monk grappling with a dozen bandits, threatening them with his sword while pressing the young Squirrel behind him with the other arm. Gawain blinked several times, completely stunned. Of all the people he expected to see together, the Monk and the boy were the last.

Not preferring to waste any more time, he grabbed an arrow and prepared to shoot.

_____________________________________

Lancelot and Percival were in a difficult position. The day before, the former monk had seen the search warrant bearing his name on the outskirts of a village.

“I think we're going to have a problem,” Squirrel had said. 

Lancelot had nodded, “The Church is looking for me. It's not surprising, but I didn't think they would post wanted notices so quickly. ”

Immediately he had scanned the crowd worriedly, a protective hand resting on the boy's shoulder. They had left the populated area as quickly as possible after refueling properly, but now he could see that they hadn't been quick enough. As they paused on the path, these bandits attacked them, quickly surrounding them.

And there he was, pressing Squirrel against a tree behind him while attempting to keep enemies at bay. In normal times, he would have made short work of these poorly trained thugs, but he was still weak after healing his wounds through his newfound bond with the Hidden. To make matters worse, in a hurry, he had left his sword at the Paladins' camp, and now had to be content with a badly made blade stolen from a merchant. 

One of the bandits approached and attempted a blow with an ax. Lancelot easily deflected it and sliced the throat of his enemy with a deliberate and strong, but not very precise, swing of the blade. 

“Nine left,” Lancelot thought apprehensively, worrying about keeping the boy safe. 

Another bandit started running towards him, only to be stopped dead in his tracks, an arrow sticking out of his throat. His eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground, drowning in his own blood. The curiosity of wanting to know where this arrow came from was quickly overshadowed by the urgent need to take advantage of this unexpected shift in power. While Squirrel picked up stone and threw them at the eight remaining enemies, Lancelot easily killed two others with quick, fluid movements of his blade. Another bandit soon lay dead on the ground, an arrow in his heart, followed quickly by two of his comrades. A cry of rage and pain split the battle and Lancelot turned, the sight of Percival being dragged to the ground by the three remaining enemies sending a shard of panic into his heart. 

He suddenly stopped though, in shock. The man standing in front of him, bow in hand, is none other than the Green Knight. 

The last two bandits flee, releasing Percival, and silence once more hungover the forest. Lancelot was a little out of breath, but the fight hadn’t taken anymore out of him than that. He could do little more though, than stare at the Green Knight with a blank, dumbfounded expression. 

“Gawain!” Percival shouted, rushing into the arms of the faë knight–whose name Lancelot now knew–who knelt to greet him, joy visible in his eyes. “I thought you were dead!”

“I was, I think…it’s a long story,” he replied with a gentle smile. 

Gawain got up then, turning to look at Lancelot, who hadn’t moved, trying to give the two of them a moment of privacy. He stood tense, watching as the Green Knight scrutinized him, fearing the other fae’s reaction. Would the Green Knight attack–take Percival and order Lancelot to leave? Worse, would the Green Knight seek out the revenge he arguably deserved? He was suddenly acutely aware of how he must look, spattered in bloostains. 

But Gawain did none of that. His face was devoid of all the wound Lancelot had seen there in Brother Salt’s tent, and his clean hair was lifting gently in the wind. He didn’t look like the dreaded warrior Lancelot had seen. He still was, of course, but he now stood in a gentle, more peaceful light. When he smiled, Lancelot found him surprisingly handsome. 

“I would have never thought…” Gawain began, but failed in finishing his thought. 

“Me neither,” Lancelot replied. 

And, without the slightest bit of wondering, Lancelot found himself enveloped in the Green Knight’s—in Gawain’s arms. He had to refrain from taking a step back, from flinching away, from pulling away entirely. Physical contact not involving combat and pain had become a foreign concept to him. But the softness of that embrace, the gentle warmth of the other fae’s body close to his, at least partly eased that discomfort. 

“Thank you,” Gawain whispered against him. Not finding the words, Lancelot just nodded.

A moment later they were breaking apart, but the warmth somehow lingered. After the corpses had been searched Gawain offered them to join him at his camp. 

Night fell by the time they finished eating, and the remains of the wild boar were left to dry for transport the next morning. The three of them sat around the dire. 

“How could you heal so quickly?” Percival asked suddenly. It was only a matter of time before he started chatting.

"I am not sure. I believe Nimue healed me before I left the Paladin camp, but I was alone when I woke up. I don't know where she is,” Gawain said heavily. Percival frowned, confused, and Gawain then turned to address Lancelot. “But...I learned from the villagers she killed Carden before she left the area.” 

Something in Lancelot froze, he didn’t know quite what to think of that information. Ever since he left the fear of seeing Father Carden appear from behind a tree to correct him for his behavior had haunted him. At least that knowledge took that weight off him. 

But this new freedom comes with a strange price; the only person who came close to the concept of family for him was dead. On a logical level, he knew that Carden was never a father to him—that he only took advantage of the vulnerability of an orphaned child to manipulate him. The scars on his back seemed to almost burn, the feeling of it haunting his mind, as if Carden somehow lived on through that memory of pain...

Lancelot suddenly realized that Gawain was scrutinizing him, trying to decipher his reaction.

“The world will be much better without him. Thank you for telling me,” he said, ignoring the tightness in his chest. Gawain nodded, as if realizing that by ‘the world’ Lancelot had meant ‘himself.’ Embarrassed to be the center of attention, he changed the subject. “We heard that the resistant Fae took to sea about a week ago for the Northern Lands,” he said.

Gawain’s eyes lit up. “So Nimue managed to protect them…I hope she survived.”

“We must find them, Green Knight! Lancelot and I were already on our way north before we met you. You should come with us! ”Percival exclaimed. Lancelot had never seen him with such a big smile.

Gawain pretends to think, before bursting out laughing. “Of course I'm coming with you, Squirrel! Looks like you two need my help to survive in this hostile land anyway. ”

At that, Lancelot let out a chuckle.

Some time later, Squirrel fell asleep on his mattress while Gawain and Lancelot decided to stay a little longer around the soothing heat of the campfire. They sat side by side, and Lancelot could, for the first time, detail every part of the man’s face. He tried to guess how long he could watch before it got embarrassing.

“I… maybe I should let you both go north,” he said at last. 

Gauvain turned his head towards him.“Why?” He asked.

“The Fae would never welcome me among them, that's obvious. Not after everything I've done.”

“You would be surprised”, answered Gawain. “Don't ask them to forgive you, of course. I don't think they can. But if I explain your story to them, if I tell them you're one of us, they'll understand eventually. Some are proud and will take longer, but it will come. You'll see, if Squirrel and I could do it, they can too.” 

Lancelot pondered these words for a moment. He imagined what his life would be like among the Fae, without constant massacres, without the Church. What would it be like to live among his...people? A few weeks ago, he would have knocked himself for even having had that thought. But now...he was tempted to accept.

“Nobody asks you to make up for your mistakes,” continued Gawain, as if reading his mind. “That’s impossible. The people who died will not come back. But you can fight for those who stay, to ensure a peaceful future for them.”

These words resonated with him like nothing before, a balm to the deep burn on his heart he hadn’t realized he had carried for years. Hope. 

Lancelot looked at Gawain for a long moment before answering. 

“Yes...yes, I think I can do that.”


	3. Deeper Feelings

For most of a week, Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival’s time was taken up mostly by riding. The youngest faë traveled with Lancelot most often, saying that he felt more comfortable on Goliath by explanation. It might have been a convincing argument, if it didn’t hardly cover the fact that Percival now seemed to trust Lancelot to the end of the earth. 

Lancelot gave Gawain an apologetic, apprehensive look the first few times he hoisted Squirrel onto the black mount, but he only ever responded with a smile. Squirrel told him that the former monk faced off against the Trinity Guard and barely made it out alive to save him. It was therefore normal that he had blind faith in him.

Lancelot often remarked that those last few days had been possibly the happiest of his life. Never had he smiled or laughed so much in such a short period of time, although those visible expressions of joy were rare. Gawain’s face split in a surprised smile every time this happened; despite the fact that two weeks before, Lancelot captured and delivered him to the Paladins, after having killed a large number of Fae. This could not be forgotten. But he also could not help but feel compassion for Lancelot. 

_ Lancelot _ ...when he revealed his real name to Gawain he repeated it once and then twice, letting the syllables roll across his tongue like some sort of forgotten, ancient, and lost language rediscovered. He spoke it as often as he could ever since then, both to help Lancelot get used to it, to help himself separate this person before him from the Weeping Monk, and...because he honestly found the name pleasant. 

Obviously, Squirrel never stopped talking on the road. The boy told Lancelot stories about his young life, fleshed out by details from Gawain. Lancelot always listened attentively, a smile on his lips, sometimes asking questions and punctuating the story with small laughter. He let the flow of words go on and on until, on some days, the boy ended up falling asleep against him, cradled by Goliath’s steady movements. At such times the two men were blessed by a blissful, if temporary, silence. 

After a week had worn on, they approached a village of average size, in which several merchants had taken up residents. It was agreed Gawain and Percival would go to town while Lancelot would keep a distance with the horses. The bounty on his head was still out for anyone who could bring him back to the Church, dead or alive, so it was safer that he remained in the forest. 

When Gawain and Percival returned, he had finished setting up their camp and begun to unpack what remained of their dried meat and bread. The opportunity to restock their supplies was very timely. Gawain immediately approached him, with the look of someone up to something. He was obviously having trouble keeping his lips from lifting into a grin, and his eyes betrayed excitement.

“I bought you new clothes,” Gawain exclaimed. 

Lancelot immediately raised his eyebrow in surprise, eying the bundles Gawain was carrying warily. “Sorry? Those are...for me?” 

“Yes, that’s what I said. Think about it; people are looking for a guy with long black clothes and a big dark cape. With these, it will be much more difficult for anyone to recognize you.” 

Lancelot grabbed the clothes and began to inspect them. They were green, with pieces of brown leather sewn in. He noticed that the tunic was shorter than the one he was currently wearing, as well as the cape. 

“I took care to buy a cape with a hood,” Gawain commented, looking nervous at his silence. “And look, you can lift that piece of fabric above your nose to hide your marks, if you need to.” 

“You...you didn’t have to do this,” Lancelot stammered, confused. This outfit was the first thing approaching a gift that he had been given in a long time. He didn't ask Gawain for anything and yet he bought all these things for him. This troubled him enormously.

“But I did it,” Gawain replied evenly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Go try them, I'll take care of the meal.”.

Lancelot was not about to protest. He was amazed to find that his new attire fit him perfectly. With his body less hidden behind layers of long, dark clothes, he felt comfortable and clean. His old clothes were still stained with blood. Traveling would be easier without his famous black cape, and, with his hair arranged to hide the cross-shaped burn in his head, he was able to feel like a normal civilian in this outfit. 

Gawain observed him from top to bottom when he returned to the campe. “You look like a real Faë! Green looks good on you,” he commented, nodding his head, a smile on his face. Blushing, Lancelot walked over, lowering his hood.

“Thank you… thank you very much,” he said softly, not finding the right words to express his gratitude. Gawain smiled at him again, but he had the feeling that it was not enough. So, just like Gawain did on the first day, he hugged Lancelot. The hug was awkward, but Lancelot found he didn’t mind it. 

“I'm glad you like them,” Gawain said, his voice soft against Lancelot’s ear. He shivered slightly at the sound, and could hope that the man he now considered his friend didn’t notice. 

As they separated, Squirrel rushed into the camp. “I found berries!” He proclaimed, visibly proud of himself. Immediately, Gawain rushed towards him. 

"Show them to me. They could be toxic.”

“I know how to recognize poisonous berries, I'm not stupid!” The boy protested, but Gawain was no longer listening to him.

Lancelot let out a small laugh, and sat down by the fire, his mind filled with a feeling of serenity. 

_____________________________________

The days went by at a slow, but not boring pace. A routine quickly set in within the unexpected trio, so that the trip, which would still be long, would be easier. 

Lancelot and Gawain took turns chasing their meals, the one left at the camp taking care of lighting a fire and setting up their things for the night. Squirrel always helped as much as he could, sometimes catching small rabbits to diversify their food. But the two men, by unspoken agreement, managed to spare him as much as possible and let him play when he had time. Despite all his courage and strength, Percival remained a child: a child who deserved to live a child’s life after all the horrors he has experienced.

One evening, during the second week of their trip, Lancelot watched the boy sleep while Gawain crafted arrows, seated at his side. Squirrel wrapped himself in a fur blanket acquired a few days earlier, the weather getting colder as they advanced north. It was small, but the perfect size for a child his age. It was nice to be able to see him so peaceful, his features relaxed, calmer than ever - considering he is capable of being so energetic while awake.

“You like him a lot, don't you?” Gawain said. Lancelot jumped up and realized that Gawain had been watching him for some time now. Embarrassed, he fixed his gaze on the fire.

“He's adorable,” he said finally. 

“I think it's deeper than that,” insisted Gawain in a tone that was meant to be reassuring. Lancelot sighed.

“I feel responsible for him,” he explained, “He told me it wasn't me who struck the blow that killed his family, but that's just like. You said it yourself, I watched them do it, and that makes me guilty. ”

“I didn't think my words had marked you so much,” Gawain said, surprised. 

In response,Lancelot finally took his eyes off the fire to lock his gaze with Gawain, to show him how genuine he was. “Without this conversation, I might not have had the courage to save him”.

Gawain put down the arrow he was working on to place his hand gently over his. The contact startled him again, but he didn't move.

“I think you would have made the right choice anyway. I said those things out of desperation to try to get you to join my cause, but I don't regret them because they are true. But, already then, I knew that what you did, you did under the influence of Carden and his lies.” Gawain’s voice was somehow soft, yet still serious and forceful. 

“It doesn’t justify anything,” Lancelot replied bitterly. 

“Sure, but that explains the reasons for your actions. You didn't think for yourself, or at least, you thought very little. His parents would be grateful to you for saving him from an excruciating death, I’m grateful to you. By continuing to take care of him, you continue to earn that gratitude.”

Lancelot nodded, understanding the significance of what he just said. This was his redemption, or rather, the roots of what could become one. “Thank you,” he said softly to Gawain. He realized he thanked the man often, and yet it still didn’t feel like enough. 

While their eye contact did not break, Gawain withdrew his hand, which had been still resting on Lancelot’s. His eyes lingered for a little longer than they should have before he got back to work. 

Later that evening, Lancelot thought a lot about the feeling of Gawain’s hand, realizing that it was quickly becoming familiar. He wondered if Gawain behaved this way with everyone he knew, or if it was specific to him. He didn’t really know what it would mean for him, for them. What he does know, however, is that while he has shied away from physical contact his entire life, he didn’t now. It felt different. Maybe it was related to his sudden change in life, or maybe something else. 

Gawain spent so much time reassuring him. Even if he did not hesitate to confront Lancelot with his crimes, he never expressed explicit resentment towards him. This caused Lancelot as much joy as pain. 

How could the Paladins organize the extermination of such a kind people? There seemed to always be more empathy and generosity in Faë than in humans, although, Lancelot was realizing, Paladins were not really good examples. He had always believed in the stories of purification and absolution that Carden had been thrusting into his head from childhood, when the truth was before his eyes from the start. If he still thought that this famous God exists, he did not believe that the genocide of the Faë was his will.

He assumed that the hatred humans often felt for the Faë comes from their ignorance of these people. But that was not for him to judge, given all the harm he had done in his life. As he sorted through these thoughts, as he did every night, the emotions threatened to overwhelm him, and he turned his head to look at the sleeping figures of Gawain and Squirrel. This was what he was fighting for now. For a more just cause.

For those he cares about.


End file.
